Living Wittily

This the power, of the cross

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It was Dr Sheila Cassidy who made me start looking for the cross in unlikely places. While working at St Luke's Hospice she started noticing the cruciform image on windows, door panels, furniture joints. These were daily interruptions of her duties, bringing her mind back to the reason she was doing this kind of work, for love of Jesus who died for all humanity, and in whose resurrection is the hope of the world.

Last night walking along Aberdeen beach, a long intentionally solitary walk beside the lapping waves of a receding tide, I stopped at one of the old encrusted wooden barriers. Just about my eye height, under 5 foot, I took this photo. The moment I saw the shape a whole set of connections started to flash alight. These rugged encrusted timbers are there to meet the waves of a sea that can be relentless, ferocious and destructive, as well as calm. This cross shaped barrier remains solidly there, as the tides come and go.

This week I've walked alongside people who are suffering, and whose humanity and hopes are besieged by waves that come rolling in with relentless energy. Alongside a calm sea like this, Jesus walked after a busy and dangerous day when people wanted him to be a king, and didn't realise he already was a king, just not on their terms. And alongside such a sea he walked in early morning after his crucifixion, when he came looking for his friends, and found them becalmed and hungry. Even in my own life just now, this symbol of the love of God beyond telling, ruggedly made flesh in the gift of incarnate deity, tells a Gospel story encrusted with eternity and covered with the marks and realities of history, and reminds me, in all the encrusted realities of my own life, of a hymn about a cross towering o'er the wrecks of time, and another about the cross as refuge tried and sweet, and yet another about the place where sorrow and love flowed mingling down.

It was dusk – and I took the picture with no thought of the camera setting, so this dark, wet, apparently immovable barrier against the dangers of a relentless sea, was for a fraction of a second, illuminated and bathed with light. I took time to pray for those going through their own experiences of what must at times feel like crucifixion….alzheimer's disease, cancer, depression, addiction, betrayal, rejection and that core deep loneliness that now and again we all feel and wonder why God has forsaken us….O cross, that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee….

 

Comments

6 responses to “This the power, of the cross”

  1. Perpetua avatar
    Perpetua

    Deeply thought-provoking. Thank you.

    Reply
  2. Perpetua avatar
    Perpetua

    Deeply thought-provoking. Thank you.

    Reply
  3. Perpetua avatar
    Perpetua

    Deeply thought-provoking. Thank you.

    Reply
  4. RuthG avatar
    RuthG

    This is the poem that started me doing exactly what you describe…
    THE CROSS.
    by John Donne
    SINCE Christ embraced the cross itself, dare I
    His image, th’ image of His cross, deny ?
    Would I have profit by the sacrifice,
    And dare the chosen altar to despise ?
    It bore all other sins, but is it fit
    That it should bear the sin of scorning it ?
    Who from the picture would avert his eye,
    How would he fly his pains, who there did die ?
    From me no pulpit, nor misgrounded law,
    Nor scandal taken, shall this cross withdraw,
    It shall not, for it cannot ; for the loss
    Of this cross were to me another cross.
    Better were worse, for no affliction,
    No cross is so extreme, as to have none.
    Who can blot out the cross, with th’ instrument
    Of God dew’d on me in the Sacrament ?
    Who can deny me power, and liberty
    To stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be ?
    Swim, and at every stroke thou art thy cross ;
    The mast and yard make one, where seas do toss ;
    Look down, thou spiest out crosses in small things ;
    Look up, thou seest birds raised on crossed wings ;
    All the globe’s frame, and spheres, is nothing else
    But the meridians crossing parallels.
    Material crosses then, good physic be,
    But yet spiritual have chief dignity.
    These for extracted chemic medicine serve,
    And cure much better, and as well preserve.
    Then are you your own physic, or need none,
    When still’d or purged by tribulation ;
    For when that cross ungrudged unto you sticks,
    Then are you to yourself a crucifix.
    As perchance carvers do not faces make,
    But that away, which hid them there, do take ;
    Let crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee,
    And be His image, or not His, but He.
    But, as oft alchemists do coiners prove,
    So may a self-despising get self-love ;
    And then, as worst surfeits of best meats be,
    So is pride, issued from humility,
    For ’tis no child, but monster ; therefore cross
    Your joy in crosses, else, ’tis double loss.
    And cross thy senses, else both they and thou
    Must perish soon, and to destruction bow.
    For if the eye seek good objects, and will take
    No cross from bad, we cannot ‘scape a snake.
    So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking ; cross the rest ;
    Make them indifferent ; call, nothing best.
    But most the eye needs crossing, that can roam,
    And move ; to th’ others th’ objects must come home.
    And cross thy heart ; for that in man alone
    Pants downwards, and hath palpitation.
    Cross those dejections, when it downward tends,
    And when it to forbidden heights pretends.
    And as the brain through bony walls doth vent
    By sutures, which a cross’s form present,
    So when thy brain works, ere thou utter it,
    Cross and correct concupiscence of wit.
    Be covetous of crosses; let none fall ;
    Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all.
    Then doth the cross of Christ work faithfully
    Within our hearts, when we love harmlessly
    That cross’s pictures much, and with more care
    That cross’s children, which our crosses are.

    Reply
  5. RuthG avatar
    RuthG

    This is the poem that started me doing exactly what you describe…
    THE CROSS.
    by John Donne
    SINCE Christ embraced the cross itself, dare I
    His image, th’ image of His cross, deny ?
    Would I have profit by the sacrifice,
    And dare the chosen altar to despise ?
    It bore all other sins, but is it fit
    That it should bear the sin of scorning it ?
    Who from the picture would avert his eye,
    How would he fly his pains, who there did die ?
    From me no pulpit, nor misgrounded law,
    Nor scandal taken, shall this cross withdraw,
    It shall not, for it cannot ; for the loss
    Of this cross were to me another cross.
    Better were worse, for no affliction,
    No cross is so extreme, as to have none.
    Who can blot out the cross, with th’ instrument
    Of God dew’d on me in the Sacrament ?
    Who can deny me power, and liberty
    To stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be ?
    Swim, and at every stroke thou art thy cross ;
    The mast and yard make one, where seas do toss ;
    Look down, thou spiest out crosses in small things ;
    Look up, thou seest birds raised on crossed wings ;
    All the globe’s frame, and spheres, is nothing else
    But the meridians crossing parallels.
    Material crosses then, good physic be,
    But yet spiritual have chief dignity.
    These for extracted chemic medicine serve,
    And cure much better, and as well preserve.
    Then are you your own physic, or need none,
    When still’d or purged by tribulation ;
    For when that cross ungrudged unto you sticks,
    Then are you to yourself a crucifix.
    As perchance carvers do not faces make,
    But that away, which hid them there, do take ;
    Let crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee,
    And be His image, or not His, but He.
    But, as oft alchemists do coiners prove,
    So may a self-despising get self-love ;
    And then, as worst surfeits of best meats be,
    So is pride, issued from humility,
    For ’tis no child, but monster ; therefore cross
    Your joy in crosses, else, ’tis double loss.
    And cross thy senses, else both they and thou
    Must perish soon, and to destruction bow.
    For if the eye seek good objects, and will take
    No cross from bad, we cannot ‘scape a snake.
    So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking ; cross the rest ;
    Make them indifferent ; call, nothing best.
    But most the eye needs crossing, that can roam,
    And move ; to th’ others th’ objects must come home.
    And cross thy heart ; for that in man alone
    Pants downwards, and hath palpitation.
    Cross those dejections, when it downward tends,
    And when it to forbidden heights pretends.
    And as the brain through bony walls doth vent
    By sutures, which a cross’s form present,
    So when thy brain works, ere thou utter it,
    Cross and correct concupiscence of wit.
    Be covetous of crosses; let none fall ;
    Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all.
    Then doth the cross of Christ work faithfully
    Within our hearts, when we love harmlessly
    That cross’s pictures much, and with more care
    That cross’s children, which our crosses are.

    Reply
  6. RuthG avatar
    RuthG

    This is the poem that started me doing exactly what you describe…
    THE CROSS.
    by John Donne
    SINCE Christ embraced the cross itself, dare I
    His image, th’ image of His cross, deny ?
    Would I have profit by the sacrifice,
    And dare the chosen altar to despise ?
    It bore all other sins, but is it fit
    That it should bear the sin of scorning it ?
    Who from the picture would avert his eye,
    How would he fly his pains, who there did die ?
    From me no pulpit, nor misgrounded law,
    Nor scandal taken, shall this cross withdraw,
    It shall not, for it cannot ; for the loss
    Of this cross were to me another cross.
    Better were worse, for no affliction,
    No cross is so extreme, as to have none.
    Who can blot out the cross, with th’ instrument
    Of God dew’d on me in the Sacrament ?
    Who can deny me power, and liberty
    To stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be ?
    Swim, and at every stroke thou art thy cross ;
    The mast and yard make one, where seas do toss ;
    Look down, thou spiest out crosses in small things ;
    Look up, thou seest birds raised on crossed wings ;
    All the globe’s frame, and spheres, is nothing else
    But the meridians crossing parallels.
    Material crosses then, good physic be,
    But yet spiritual have chief dignity.
    These for extracted chemic medicine serve,
    And cure much better, and as well preserve.
    Then are you your own physic, or need none,
    When still’d or purged by tribulation ;
    For when that cross ungrudged unto you sticks,
    Then are you to yourself a crucifix.
    As perchance carvers do not faces make,
    But that away, which hid them there, do take ;
    Let crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee,
    And be His image, or not His, but He.
    But, as oft alchemists do coiners prove,
    So may a self-despising get self-love ;
    And then, as worst surfeits of best meats be,
    So is pride, issued from humility,
    For ’tis no child, but monster ; therefore cross
    Your joy in crosses, else, ’tis double loss.
    And cross thy senses, else both they and thou
    Must perish soon, and to destruction bow.
    For if the eye seek good objects, and will take
    No cross from bad, we cannot ‘scape a snake.
    So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking ; cross the rest ;
    Make them indifferent ; call, nothing best.
    But most the eye needs crossing, that can roam,
    And move ; to th’ others th’ objects must come home.
    And cross thy heart ; for that in man alone
    Pants downwards, and hath palpitation.
    Cross those dejections, when it downward tends,
    And when it to forbidden heights pretends.
    And as the brain through bony walls doth vent
    By sutures, which a cross’s form present,
    So when thy brain works, ere thou utter it,
    Cross and correct concupiscence of wit.
    Be covetous of crosses; let none fall ;
    Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all.
    Then doth the cross of Christ work faithfully
    Within our hearts, when we love harmlessly
    That cross’s pictures much, and with more care
    That cross’s children, which our crosses are.

    Reply

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